The Mountain and the Saber
by SaberWolfe
Summary: What would happen if Tyrion had found a stronger Champion for his trial by combat? Let's find out. One-shot. Rated M for Language and Violence. Read at your own risk. Please Read/Review.


**Hopefully some will Enjoy this little one-shot piece I've had roaming around my head for a couple weeks now. Please Read/Review. Thanks.**

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The sun shone into Tyrion's cell, splashing off the floor and illuminating the cell. His brother sat with him as they waited for the appointed time for his trial by combat. Nevertheless, even with all the brightness in his cell, his thoughts still travelled to a darker time. It had been several days and nights since the stranger had ventured into his life. A dark night, and a darker visitor.

_He had heard the softest of footsteps outside his cell and a brief conversation with the guard. The cell door opened as a dark figure strode in carrying a burning torch. He had set the torch in the holder on the wall and stepped back._

_"Tyrion Lannister", the man had said. The voice had since a chill up Tyrion's spine. Metallic. That was the only word he could have used to describe the mans voice. It sounded as though his voice had been muffled by some sort of steel and reproduced after being deprived of anything that made it sound human._

_"Yes?" he had answered._

_"I understand that you have demanded a trial by combat and find yourself without a suitable champion. Is that correct?" The steely voice asked in it's uniquely unnerving way._

_"Yes, it is, but may I ask who I have the pleasure of speaking to?" Tyrion asked as he used his hand to shade his eyes from the light of the torch. He peered into the darkness, trying to get a glimpse of the man's face._

_"You may, but does that require me to respond?"_

_"No, I suppose it doesn't. Though it would make the conversation easier." Tyrion quipped._

_A short laugh escaped from the foreboding figure, "HA. Very well then. Though you would not know of me, I am Lord Andraas, and I have come to offer my services as your champion." _

_ The figured stepped forward into the light, and Tyrion got his first good look at the man. If in fact he was a man. He was clothed in black from head to toe. His face was hidden behind a faceless metal mask. A vertical red line all but glowed from the center of the mask, flanked by carved lines forming a V shape. Beneath the red stripe, where the chin should be, were 3 black oval holes, and on either side of them were 3 diagonal black stripes across the cheeks. There was no discernable place for the eyes. Not even a slit or window to look through._

_"Why?"_

_"I have my own reasons. I can assure you a victory."_

_"Do you even know who you will be fighting? Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain. A monster of a man in both size and character."_

_"Yes. I know. Will you have me as your champion? or would you rather fight him yourself?"_

_"I don't seem to have many options. Very well, I accept. Should you win, I shall pay whatever price you ask. 'A Lannister always pays his debts.'" Tyrion quoted his family motto._

_"Keep your gold. I shall see you in the arena. Farewell." And with that, the mysterious figure took the torch and strode back out of the cell._

Looking back on that moment sent a shiver through Tyrions diminuitive body.

"'Lord Andraas'", Tyrion muttered, "You don't get a title like that for nothing, do you?"

"I've never even fucking heard of him." Jaime replied.

Tyrion hung his head, "I hope I didn't make the biggest mistake of my life. If I did, I guess that'll just make it the last mistake as well."

Their conversation continued until the bells tolled , signalling the beginning of the trial.

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Tyrion found his champion kneeling under a canopy at the edge of the arena. Still cloaked in black, he contrasted everything around him.

"Rather warm for such dark attire don't you think?" He asked.

"Temperature doesn't affect me." Andraas replied.

Tyrion passed it off and glanced around. His father was sitting on the raised dais with his sister, Cersei, and brother, Jaime, who had parted ways with him on their walk to the arena. Oberyn Martell sat off to one side with his paramore, Ellaria.

Shortly, The Mountain appeared at the other end of the arena striding confidently and purposefully into view.

Ellaria tugged at Oberyn's sleeve, "You wanted to fight that?"

"I wanted to kill that." he replied, "Let's just hope this stranger is up to the task."

The pleasentries were observed and Tywin ordered the fight to begin.

The masked figure rose and removed his black cloak. Underneath were equally black but loose fitting robes, even his hands were covered in black gloves. Tyrion noticed a strange silvery sceptre hanging at the man's side. It was nearly as long as he was tall, rising to his shoulders he judged.

"What kind of weapon is that?" he asked.

"Watch and see", was the only reply he got as the masked man walked out into the arena, removing the sceptre from its place on his hip.

Ser Gregor Clegane drew his great sword with one hand and stepped toward his challenger. The man must be brave or foolish to carry such a pitiful weapon into battle, Gregor was betting on foolish.

"You have this one chance to save your own life", The figure said in a metallic voice that came from somehwere beneath that faceless mask. "Forfeit the match and live. Though I sincerely hope you refuse. I will enjoy killing you."

"Fuck you. I will enjoy fucking your corpse." With that, the Mountain charged, swinging the giant sword as though it were a dagger. Left, right, down, up. Every swing missed its mark.

"Is that the best you can do?"

Gregor could hear the sneer in that metallic voice, and it pissed him off. He lunged forward with a vicious vertical strike meant to cleave his opponent in two, but the masked man wasn't there. His sword blade clanged off the stones. The challenger was suddenly behind him. He turned, "Fight me, you cunt!"

"Gladly."

Gregor charged again with another vicious swing. He watched as the masked fighter sidestepped his would-be killing blow. Suddenly, there was a bright red flash and a searing pain in his wrist. A collective gasp went up from the crowd around him. He heard the sound of metal clanging to the ground as he looked in disbelief at his now hand-less arm. He clutched his wrist with his left hand and dropped to one knee. He saw his opponent holding the silver sceptre with a glowing red blade extended from one end of it. The fighter began to circle the injured Clegane.

"It's over, molehill. You sealed your fate when you drew your sword."

The blood began to boil in Gregor's veins. It was that voice. That wretched metallic voice. He heard it again, soft as a whisper in his ear, "You're going to die. Give in."

With a surprising burst of speed, Gregor spun to his right, swinging his arm like a club to bash the fighter's masked head in. Only the masked man wasn't there. The Mountain watched in horror as that vicious red blade sliced cleanly through his elbow joint, armor and all, sending his disembodied forearm flying across the arena. His face contorted into a mask of pain and outrage. He clutched again at his arm. His vision was starting to blur.

Tyrion watched in amazement as his champion shaved pieces off the Mountain. He allowed himself a brief moment of hope that he may yet survive this.

Ser Gregor took a step back, away from his opponent. Another. Another. Suddenly his foot came down on unsteady ground. He looked down to see that he had stepped on the blade of his sword, his severed hand still holding the grip.

Releasing his severed arm, he leaned down to pick up his great sword with his left hand, having to shake his right hand off the swordgrip.

"You only prolong the inevitable. Give in to your fate. Die."

"I'm gonna tear your head off and fuck your skull!", the Mountain shouted back before bellowing his rage and charging the masked fighter. The mask. Gregor had never seen a helmet like this one. There were no holes or slits for the eyes to see through. He desperately wanted to rip it off his opponents head, just so he could look into the eyes of his victim as he died.

He swung violently at the faceless bastard that took his arm. Missing him again and again. A powerful slash down and to the right, only to see the black figure dodge the blade. He was off to his left now, not quite behind him. A torch lit inside Gregor's mind, a thought, a brilliant scheme. He slumped his shoulders, relaxed his left arm, letting the tip of his swords blade touch the ground. He breathed heavily, feigning exhaustion. He heard a footstep. The scheme was working, he only needed him to come a little closer. Another step. He was setting the trap. Only one more step. There!

Grasping his sword with a renewed vigor, he swung viciously to his left. A powerful swing that would cut any man in two as easy as butter. He spun a full three-quarters of a circle before he stopped. Mid-spin he saw a brilliant red flash as he made contact and was momentarily blinded. Another gasp erupted from the audience. He felt a rush of excitement before he sensed a familiar pain. This time the pain seemed to be further up his arm. He looked down. His left arm was gone. He turned back to see the masked fighter holding his severed arm in one hand and his own fiery red weapon in the other.

He twitched his thumb and the glowing red blade retreated into the silver sceptre. Placing the sceptre on his hip, he then removed the large arm from the grip of the great sword.

"Kneel weakling."

That wretched voice again.

"_Weakling?" _Tyrion thought, "_The Mountain, is a weakling? Surely he's joking."_

"I Said Kneel!" the metallic voice commanded. In a sudden rush of speed, he charged forward and thrust the great sword through Ser Gregor's thigh. A roar of pain escaped the Mountains lips. The masked man wrenched the sword up and down in Gregors leg before ripping it back out. The Mountain fell to his knees.

The faceless knight tossed the sword aside as though it weighed nothing.

"You think you know pain? Think you've suffered enough?"

"Fuck you, you cunt!"

The masked fighter stepped back a few paces, "Very well." His hands fell to his sides.

From his viewpoint behind the fighter, Tyrion could see what looked like lightning dance across the tips of the dark Lord's fingers.

To the shock and amazement of everyone in the arena, the man in black unleashed a storm of lightning from his fingertips that arced straight across the distance between him and The Mountain. Gregor watched in horrified slow motion as the blue lightning wrapped itself around him and began to burn into his body. His muscles began to spasm uncontrollably, clenching and unclenching. A fiery pain started climbing up his spine, searing nerve endings and sending bolts of excrutiating pain throughout his body. Finally, this pain reach the base of his skull and exploded into his brain.

A hoarse, ragged scream erupted from his throat. His entire body began convulsing. His armor began to heat up from all the electricity coarsing through it. In a moment of surreal clarity he felt the heat of the metal from both a distance and close up. He could smell the smoke of his own clothing burning and the acrid scent of his own burning flesh.

"Enough!"

The shout was heard throughout the arena. All eyes turned to Tywin Lannister, who now stood at the edge of the ballistrade. The lightning storm faded away, as the masked fighter walked towards his helpless victim. He stepped around behind the hulking form of the larger warrior, clapped both hands on either side of Clegane's helmet and wrenched it from his head. Tossing it aside, he laid his left hand on the top of Gregors head and grabbed a handful of burnt skin which peeled back to reveal a shiny white skull. He drew his weapon and placed the emittor at the base of the fallen knights head.

From a distance, Gregor could feel the cold sensation touch the back of his neck as the final words he would ever hear resounded in his ears.

"So dies your Champion."

With that, Andraas thumbed the activation switch and a dark crimson blade emerged from Ser Gregor's mouth. Slowly he dragged the blade up between the eyes to finally energed from the top of the skull where his left hand had been.

Smoke rose from the cavity in Clegane's head as the dark warrior kicked the body forward to slump onto the stone floor of the arena. He then disengaged the blade and turned toward the onlookers.

Andraas could have easily read each persons emotions even with the use of the force. Disbelief and indignation shone brightly on the face of Tywin Lannister; Disdain and utter contempt from Cersei; relief washed over both Jaime and Tyrion, who Andraas could see standing well off to his left. But most interestingly was Oberyn Martell, pure satisfaction. Andraas almost expected a standing ovation from the Dornish prince.

"This court finds Tyrion Lannister, Guilty. And sentences him to death. Take him away."

A cry arose from the entire crowd. Shouts of "What?", and "Bullshit!" could be heard all around.

An evil smile crept onto Cersei's lips.

"You broke the rules of the trial by combat. It wasn't a fair fight."

Two guards stepped up behind Tyrion and clapped their hands on his shoulders to take him away. Before they could even take a step however, the dark Lord threw his sceptre out behind him. Tyrion watched in stunned silence as the weapon turned in air and arced back towards him. As it neared, it ignited its own crimson blade and decapitated both of the guards in one fell strike before arcing its way back to the waiting hand of its master.

The masked fighter caught the weapon in his left hand as his right hand shot out towards Tywin, who began grasping at his throat, much like Joffrey had done at his own wedding.

"You speak of fair as if you somehow acted that way yourself. Who but me could have killed that giant? You will rescind your statement. You will declare Tyrion innocent and release him from custody or I shall rip your head from your body. Do we have an understanding?"

Tywin managed a nod as best he could and was released from Lord Andraas's invisible grip.

"This court.. finds you.. innocent. You're free to go." The elder Lannister coughed.

The dark Lord strode over to Tyrion and with a wave of his hand the restraints fell from his wrists.

"I have questions", Tyrion said to his new saviour.

"I will answer one. Your choice."

Tyrion thought for a moment before asking, "Why did you help me?"

Andraas gathered his cloak and turned to leave, then, looking down at Tyrion, responded, "I have a soft spot for cripples, bastards, and broken things." Then he left without another word.

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**Well, Hope you Liked this story. I've considered doing more one-shot pieces like this. Please let me know via review or PM if you'd like to see more of this. Thanks for reading til the end and have a wonderful day.**


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